How vainly, thro' infinite trouble and strife, THRO' groves sequester'd, dark and still, In silent paths, the nameless rill Awhile it plays with circling sweep, And lingering winds its native plain; Then pours impetuous down the steep, And mingles with the boundless main. O let my years thus devious glide When labour tires, and pleasure palls, And mingle with eternity. HAWKESWORTH. WHAT man in his wits had not rather be poor, Environ'd from morning to night in a crowd, Not a moment unbent, or alone; Constrain'd to be abject, though never so proud, And at every one's call but his own! Still repining and longing for quiet each hour, With the means of enjoying his wish in his power, For a year must be past, or a day must be come, He must add to his store this or that pretty sum, But his gains, more bewitching the more they increase, Such a wretch let mine enemy live, if he please, On! what is the gain of restless care, And what is ambition's treasure, And what are the joys that the modish share The shade with its silence,-oh! is it not sweet, And the wild-flower's scent at eve to meet, And to rove o'er the heath and the mountain? Oh! where is the morning scen to rise, The zephyr heard as at eve it sighs, W. SMYTH. * From a very elegant volume of Poems entitled "English Lyrics." COME, dear Amanda! quit the town, And to the rural hamlets fly; 'Tis joy and music all we hear; 'Tis love and beauty all we see. Come! let us mark the gradual spring, And perfect May to spread the rose. And wisely crop the blooming day; For soon, too soon, it will be night: Arise, my love! and come away. WAFT me, some soft and cooling breeze, Where Where tufted grass and mossy beds Afford a rural calm repose; Where woodbines hang their dewy heads, Old oozy Thames, that flows fast by, His fertile banks with herbage green, The Gods of health and pleasure dwell. Let me thy clear, thy yielding wave Lay me with damask roses crown'd Let chaste CLARINDA too be there With azure mantle lightly drest t; Ye |